Vltava
by yuuago
Summary: Business is what brings Sweden to Prague now, and it's an entirely different kind of business than what brought him there in 1648. Sweden, Finland, and Czech Republic (Bohemia); no pairing. About the 1648 Battle of Prague and the end of the Thirty Years War.


Notes:

Most of my fic is not uploaded here; you can find it under the name roesslyng at dreamwidth.

The Battle of Prague was the last battle of the Thirty Years War. In the summer of 1648, while peace treaties were signed in Westphalia, General Königsmarck laid siege to Prague and occupied the portion of the city on the western bank of the Vltava River, but was unable to take the Old Town on the eastern bank.

In late October, Swedish forces engaged a final attempt to take the eastern side of Prague, but the combined strength of Marshall Colloredo's soldiers and the citizen volunteers of Prague managed to beat them back. Peace talks were officially concluded in Westphalia on October 24th, but news of this did not reach Prague until a few days later, and the Swedish forces did not withdraw until November 1st. That was the end of both the Battle of Prague and the Thirty Years War.

* * *

**Vltava**

_Autumn, 2014_

It isn't the first time he has seen Prague in autumn. The last vestiges of summer linger; the biting wind hasn't yet come.

Sweden rests his hands on the sun-warmed stones of the Charles Bridge and looks out at the glittering Vltava River, waiting. He is here on business, but that doesn't mean that he can't have a moment of quiet.

Czechia had asked him to meet her here, but she hasn't yet arrived. Why here? He hadn't asked. It might be to make a point. She'll ask for her treasures back, like she always does. And he'll trip over his words, like _he_ always does, and ultimately do nothing except stare at her and say "No". Sweden frowns, his brows furrowing at the thought. If he were better with words, he would say that those treasures were taken during wartime, and that you can't resist a siege without expecting to be looted when part of your city falls.

Does it matter that much to her? Or is she just trying to make a point?

He closes his eyes and breathes in.

Somehow, beneath the autumn air, he can still smell the thick scent of smoke, blood, and gunpowder.

* * *

_October 24, 1648_

"She'll fall any day now, I think!"

Beside him, Finland raises his hand and squints toward the bridge and the old town on the other side of the bank. It is early morning, and though the onslaught had not yet begun anew, the haze from the previous night's attack lingers over the city like a curse.

Sweden grunts in acknowledgement, but shakes his head. Finland has been saying that every day since the siege began. It was easy enough to believe it in the warmth of summer, when the attack had just started, but now with the days falling ever shorter and the biting wind hinting at winter's approach, he feels as if the siege will never end. And still, Königsmarck refuses to put an end to it and withdraw. Why?

"Any day now," Sweden mutters, echoing Finland's cheerful sentiment as he tries to convince himself that his friend has to be right. They've been fighting for months, but that doesn't matter. It'll happen eventually. Just the other day they had succeeded in a breakthrough, and Karl Gustav had called for the city to surrender. Prague refused. It didn't matter.

Either they'll give up, Sweden thinks as he looks across the water to the city, or we'll bombard the place to rubble.

How long are you going to hide behind those walls, Bohemia?

* * *

_October 26, 1648_

Rush the breach and batter the gates. Destroy the walls if you have to. Those were the orders.

It had sounded simple enough. Three forces. Three pressure points. Pull Prague down. Neat and orderly, bound to be successful. The attack wouldn't last more than a day or two.

Those were the plans. Those were the expectations.

Now, as he fights his way along the bridge once again, Sweden feels his gut twist and wonders if it will be so easy. It is true that the citizens of the city are tired, that they've been fighting for months. They must be low on powder by now. But they've fought like devils since the attack on the gate began, and they fight on still. They pushed them back from the breach to the bridge in one night, and in the struggle Sweden finds it's impossible to regain that lost ground.

The gates, neither. They refuse to let go of the gates.

The air is thick with the scent of powder and blood.

The space by his side feels empty, even occupied as it is by one of his own soldiers. Finland is not there. He had taken up with Karl Gustav's cavalry forces with a smile, cheerfully telling Sweden that he'd lend the commander a hand for a little while and that this fight would be won before they knew it.

Sweden held his tongue, unable to bear saying that he would prefer that his friend join him on foot.

Now, feeling alone, he seeks out Bohemia among the mass of fighting soldiers and citizens. Maybe, he thinks, she will show herself now that she's pushed him back. It was the bridge where he'd seen her every time and she'll keep to it now, if he knows her. And-

A bullet whizzes past his head and almost takes his ear off.

Time to stop thinking, then.

With smoke in his eyes and powder in his nostrils, Sweden turns his attention to the battle.

* * *

Though the air is thick with smoke from the powder and the burning city, Sweden finds her eventually.

The pale face that catches his eye leaves him uncertain at first. It could be anyone, some beardless young man, there are enough of them in Prague's citizen forces.

Then he sees the long blonde braid streaming beneath her helmet as she darts away.

Readying his sword, he sights her and goes after her. He pushes through the thick of the fighting, and between the smoke and the cries and the attackers that lunge at him, he loses her. He curses under his breath and forces his way through toward where he saw her.

A blade thrusts in his direction and he retaliates with a more skilled blow, one that actually meets its mark. Shoving the unlucky corpse aside, he raises his head, trying to find her.

Finally, once again, he sees that long stream of hair. The wind blows and shifts the smoke and at once she's in his sight again, cutting down one of his soldiers. The job done, she looks up, stares, then rushes toward him.

He goes to meet her.

* * *

Their greeting is cold. What Sweden expects is the ringing of steel as their swords meet, but he finds nothing but air. Bohemia dodges him, and it's only by chance that he manages to get out of the way of her sword in time, saved by his long strides.

Never have they been so close as they have now. Their swords meet once. Their eyes meet as well; she stares up at him, strands of hair falling across her face, her eyes thick with fury, and the sight is almost enough to make him falter, but he pushes her away.

In a second, she is on him again.

He is twice her size, but she's quick with her steps and just as quick with her sword. It's all he can do to dodge her blows, and every one that he gives her does not meet. He moves back - to give himself room, he tells himself, as the fighting is tight and the smoke is thick - and she darts toward him, striking out again.

As he pushes her away he feels something press against the back of his thighs. The edge of the bridge. Before he can circle away, she's on him again, cornering him against the stone parapet.

She barks out a word to him, and it's drowned out by the noise and shots and roar of the battle, but the look on her face tells him that it isn't complimentary. Before he can strike her she lashes out and slashes at his forearm and in the tight space he doesn't have enough room to move. His sword clatters to the ground, the sound lost in the chaos surrounding them.

A pain in his chest comes next. He doesn't need to look down in order to know what it is.

They stare at each other. Sweden parts his lips to speak, but the only sound he can make is a wet gasp. Bohemia's eyes are wide, wisps of hair framing her siege-thinned face. For a second, she looks as if she might say something. Then she clenches her jaw, pulls her sword out of him, and pushes him back - and over.

* * *

_October 27, 1648_

Air slides into his nostrils. Sweden tries to breathe. Finds that he can't. Eyes flying open, he turns his head and coughs and coughs and coughs, spitting up half of the Vltava in the process.

"Oh good, you're alive!"

With a groan, Sweden expels the rest of the river from his lungs and then lifts his head to find Finland standing over him, looking far more cheerful than the situation warrants.

Sweden tries to speak, coughs again, then closes his eyes. The sun is too bright and he couldn't find the right words for the situation even if he tried.

Fortunately, Finland is talkative enough for both of them.

"I'm really glad to see you, you know," he says as he grabs Sweden by shoulders and hauls him further up the bank. "I had no idea where you got to! But someone said they'd seen you fall off the bridge, so I decided to go look. Come on, up you go-!"

Biting back his moans, Sweden lets Finland pull him to his feet. He stands unsteadily, heavy in his waterlogged clothing, but Finland doesn't seem to mind the way he leans on him. Looking up, he turns his head toward Prague. It's much farther away than it has any right to be; how long did he spend floating down the river?

Paying no mind to Sweden's surprise, Finland continues on, adjusting Sweden's clothing, wringing out water here, pulling off a bit of weed there. "So, I told Königsmarck that I'd go look for you. Can't have you leaving us to be food for Bohemia's fishes, you know!"

"How long?" The words are thick in his mouth and it's all Sweden can do to stop himself from coughing again as he speaks.

"What? Oh. You've been gone for a day. And - oh, hold on, I forgot to tell you. You won't believe what's happened." Finland steps close to him, smiling as he pulls a small fish out of Sweden's pocket and tosses it back into the river. "We received word last night. The war's over."

Sweden stares at him, wondering if he misheard. He swallows harshly, looking for the right words. His chest aches, and he can't tell if it's from the wound, now on its way to healing, or something else. "What?"

"Well," Finland starts, then stops, then starts again, ducking his head and fumbling as he gets back to straightening Sweden's clothing. "The war. It's over. A message came while you were busy floating down the river." He nods toward the river for emphasis, as if it isn't clear what he's talking about. "I don't think Königsmarck 's ready to leave, exactly, but it might be only a few days before we pull out."

From where he stands with Finland on the riverbank, there is something missing in the view of the city, and now Sweden knows what it is. Smoke. The blackness from the cannons and the fires that hung over it before has started to fade. He purses his lips and squints over at what he can see of the town's eastern bank. A waste, laying siege for months without actually taking the place. It doesn't matter that they had their fill of the other side; it's the principle of the thing.

"Um-"

He glances down. Finland looks up at him, but as soon as their gazes meet, he startles and looks away.

"Come on now, don't look so sour!" Laughing, Finland fixes the last of his buttons, adjusts the folds in his clothing. "Going for a swim wasn't so bad, was it?" He nods in the direction of the water, indicating the dark back of a corpse floating sullenly downriver. "At least you didn't end up like that poor sod."

Sweden sighs. He thinks about trying to explain, but his tongue gets the better of him and staunchly refuses to cooperate. So, he takes one last look at the eastern bank and the clear air around it before looking down at his friend again. "C'mon," he mutters, taking an unsteady step. "Let's go."

The attempt doesn't escape Finland's notice. "Right, then!" he says, ducking to draw Sweden's arm around his shoulders, giving him support whether he asks for it or not. "Well, they'll be glad I found you, anyway."

They might not have taken the city, but somehow as he leans on his friend, soaked to the skin, Sweden finds that he doesn't mind.

The war is over.

* * *

_Autumn, 2014_

"Let's go, then."

Sweden looks up, blinking. The memory is gone: the cannonfire, the smoke, and the sensation of being pulled out of the water. He doesn't know how long he's been staring down at the river, but in the time that he was distracted, Czechia found him.

She stands there in her light autumn jacket, knitted cap pulled over her long hair, giving him an expectant look. How long has she been waiting? He'd ask, but there's a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and the answer's clear: too long.

"How about coffee?" she presses, saving him from having to say anything.

Sweden clears his throat and nods, turning toward her, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Okay," is all he manages, but it's enough - until she steps forward and links her arm with his, and suddenly he feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Good," Czechia says, and if she notices him blushing, she ignores it. Tugging him toward the old town, she pays no attention to how flustered he is, and doesn't say anything about the daydream she caught him in, either. "There's a quiet little place that I know about; I think you'll like it. We can talk better there."

Talk, Sweden thinks. About business, that's all. He won't bring up the memory, won't say anything about what he was thinking about while he was looking down at the river. And if she talks about the things his people took and didn't give back, he'll trip over his words, but he won't say anything about the dream. He won't.

The autumn air is fresh. The afternoon sun is bright. And as she leads him through her city, smiling as she talks about hot drink, her hand on his arm is pleasantly warm.

_The End_


End file.
